Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Obama pimpslaps Harper

Here is how it's going to go down tomorrow in the PM's office when President Obama comes to visit Harper for the first time:

[intro music "Big Poppa" by Edwin Starr from the Hell up in Harlem soundtrack]

Obama, sitting in Harper's chair, smoking a cigarette, using a framed picture of the Harpers as an ashtray, his feet on the desk. Harper is in the smaller chair on the other side.

"I don't give a shit about your goddamn "trade relations", mister Har-perr. I'm going to run it down for you one time, you dig? You are going to clean up your motherfucking dirty-ass oil and you are going to get it to me and my people. But that shit better be clean, you here? None of this jive-ass, stepped-on, carbon-producing garbage you been peddling around your neighborhood. I want you to pretend like that shit is my jelly sandwich that I take to the beach. If I bite into and it's got some sand gristle in there that I'm going to hurt my teeth on, I'm going to send my man Arnold up here to shove that sandwich up your ass and take a 50% discount. You with me?"

"Um, er, well—"

Grabbing his tie and yanking his face close in, "I can't hear you, honky! Let me tell you right now the only reason I haven't already slapped you hard upside the head is because I don't want to get whatever keeps your hair in that funky-ass shape on my hands. Now one more time. Are. You. With. Me?"

"Um, yes, I'm with you."

"I'm with you, who?!"

"I'm with you, President Obama."

Releasing him so he stumbles backwards, Obama leans back into the chair, takes a long drag. "That's better. We've got be clear in these kinds of relationships. Now, one more thing, about Guantanamo."

"Yes, I understand you are going to close it down."

"Not going to, motherfucker. That shit is already closed. Past tense. Shut down. Finito. And that means my Muslim brother Omar Khadr is a free man. He's going to need to chill out for a while, try and get his shit back together, you know? And he's going to be doing that here, in Canada, his nation. So you are going to make sure that happens. I want a nice crib, stereo system, ladies, all that good shit. And no trouble from the man. If any of your faggot-ass mounties with their gay redcoats get up in his mix, I'll come here personally and you know you don't want that."

"No, I really don't."

"You really don't who?"

"No, I really don't, President Obama."

"Yeah, that's right. You're getting it now. Oh shit! That reminds me, where can I get some weed? I know you all got some dynamite weed up in here."

Harper stammers, dumbfounded.

"Oh forget you. I can tell just by looking at your hair that you don't know where the weed is at. What about Iggy? He's one of them professor types. He can probably hook me up. All right, I'm done here. Remember what I said. Peace out."

Obama gets, up puts his cigarette in his mouth, does up his jacket and walks around the desk. Harper jumps up and then awkwardly reaches in the air for a high five.

"um, peace out, my brother."

Obama punches him viciously in the stomach. Harper crumbles to the floor. "I initiate the daps around here, mofo! You got that? You just concentrate on getting me that clean oil and we'll be straight. Now clean yourself up and go meet the press. I gotta go see if I can get my hands on some of that good island weed."

He steps over Harper's curled up body and walks out to the flash of lights.

Why briques du neige?

When I first moved to Montréal, I was obsessed with the quantity of accumulated snow in the winter. I came up with a scheme to design a snow-brick making tool and hire out my services to people where I would turn all the snow in their yard to bricks and then stack it neatly. This enterprise, named briques du neige, would also be an excellent way to learn about and integrate myself into my new community. Unfortunately, before I was able to launch my plan, the Japanese invented Yuki-Taro and made me redundant. So my project morphed itself into this blog, kept the title (including the minor grammatical error which perfectly captures my functional but erroneous french) and the mission to better understand this crazy city and the Quebec culture that is such a crucial and complex part of the Canadian story.

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About Me

1/3 American, 1/3 Canadian, 1/3 Montrealer, when I'm not working for the planet and living my lucky life, I hang out on the internet and write about culture and language in Montreal, books and movies. I also rant on a wide range of subjects and try to do that here so my wife doesn't have to be the only one to suffer.